The Mark of Cain. Andrew Lang

of Faith and Hope rather neatly executed in blue.

      “Why, he was in the Hit or Miss,” the speaker went on, “no later nor last night.”

      “Wot beats me,” said Tommy again, as the policeman lifted the light corpse, and tried vainly to straighten the frozen limbs, “Wot beats me is how he got in this here cart of ours.”

      “He’s light enough surely,” added Tommy; “but I warrant we didn’t chuck him on the cart with the snow in Belgrave Square.”

      “Where do you put up at night?” asked one of the policemen suddenly. He had been ruminating on the mystery.

      “In the yard there, behind that there hoarding,” answered Tommy, pointing to a breached and battered palisade near the corner of the public-house.

      At the back of this ricketty plank fence, with its particolored tatters of damp and torn advertisements, lay a considerable space of waste ground. The old houses that recently occupied the site had been pulled down, probably as condemned “slums,” in some moment of reform, when people had nothing better to think of than the housing of the poor.

      There had been an idea of building model lodgings for tramps, with all the latest improvements, on the space, but the idea evaporated when something else occurred to divert the general interest. Now certain sheds, with roofs sloped against the nearest walls, formed a kind of lumber-room for the parish.

      At this time the scavengers’ carts were housed in the sheds, or outside the sheds when these were overcrowded. Not far off were stables for the horses, and thus the waste ground was not left wholly unoccupied.

      “Was this cart o’ yours under the sheds all night or in the open?” asked the policeman, with an air of penetration.

      “Just outside the shed, worn’t it, Bill?” replied Tommy.

      Bill said nothing, being a person disinclined to commit himself.

      “If the cart was outside,” said the policeman, “then the thing’s plain enough. You started from there, didn’t you, with the cart in the afternoon?”

      “Ay,” answered Tommy.

      “And there was a little sprinkle o’ snow in the cart?”

      “May be there wos. I don’t remember one way or the other.”

      “Then you must be a stupid if you don’t see that this here cove,” pointing to the dead man, “got drinking too much last night, lost hisself, and wandered inside the hoarding, where he fell asleep in the cart.”

      “Snow do make a fellow bloomin’ sleepy,” one of the crowd assented.

      “Well, he never wakened no more, and the snow had covered over his body when you started with the cart, and him in it, unbeknown. He’s light enough to make no difference to the weight. Was it dark when you started?”

      “One of them spells of fog was on; you could hardly see your hand,” grunted Tommy.

      “Well, then, it’s as plain as—as the nose on your face,” said the policeman, without any sarcastic intentions. “That’s how it was.”

      “Bravo, Bobby!” cried one of the crowd. “They should make you an inspector, and set you to run in them dynamiting Irish coves.”

      The policeman was not displeased at this popular tribute to his shrewdness. Dignity forbade him, however, to acknowledge the compliment, and he contented himself with lifting the two handles of the stretcher which was next him. A covering was thrown over the face of the dead man, and the two policemen, with their burden, began to make their way northward to the hospital.

      A small mob followed them, but soon dwindled into a tail of street boys and girls. These accompanied the body till it disappeared from their eyes within the hospital doors. Then they waited for half an hour or so, and at last seemed to evaporate into the fog.

      By this time Tommy and his mate had unharnessed their horses and taken them to stable, the cart was housed (beneath the sheds this time), and Bill had so far succumbed to the genial influences of the occasion as to tear off his blue badge and follow Tommy into the Hit or Miss.

      A few chance acquaintances, hospitable and curious, accompanied them, intent on providing with refreshments and plying with questions the heroes of so remarkable an adventure. It is true that they already knew all Tommy and Bill had to tell; but there is a pleasure, in moments of emotional agitation, in repeating at intervals the same questions, and making over and again the same profound remarks. The charm of these performances was sure to be particularly keen within the very walls where the dead man had probably taken his last convivial glass, and where some light was certain to be thrown, by the landlady or her customers, on the habits and history of poor Dicky Shields.